Page 41 of The Business of Blood
He was another of the strange few who profited from the spilling of blood.
I arrived early to the coroner’s office, as I knew Aberline would be precisely punctual, and I wanted a chance to converse alone with Dr. Phillips. I thought he might have some insight into the beads I still held in my pocket, and I absolutely couldn’t discuss them in front of the inspectors. They’d be confiscated as evidence, and the subsequent outcomes of such a thing all boded ill for me.
The Hammer or the Blade would be instantly notified, if Croft didn’t string me up for tampering with his scene first.
Dr. Phillips and I shared a fate, and therefore, we could share indiscretions, as well. There was a black market for corpses, you see, funded by none other than the most esteemed medical colleges in London. Aspiring surgeons and anatomists were in dire need of bodies for dissection, surgical practice, and the articulation of skeletons and the like.
And so, on occasion, I supplied Dr. Phillips with the bodies the Hammer delivered to me, and he outfitted the universities. We split the generous fee.
If I were going to risk breaking the law for the Hammer, I might as well get reimbursed double.
Behind the white screen partitioning the active autopsy from the rest of the cavernous morgue, two men stood over a table, their gestures reminding me of some macabre marionette show. Shadows with scalpels and blustery voices.
“I couldn’t more heartily disagree with you, Bond,” Dr. Phillips said. “This isn’t at all an act of rage brought on by erotic mania. This sort of crime is the product of strategic calculation and the dehumanization of the victim.”
Upon noting the masculine conversation, I released a disappointed sigh.
So much for consulting with Dr. Phillips alone.
Subsequently, I suppressed a gag as I’d forgotten to breathe through my mouth. It took several moments of stabilizing myself with the handle of a long drawer used for the storage of bodies to fortify me against an encroaching bout of hysteria for which my sex was often condescended to.
It was as much a mystery to me as anyone how I could stand the natural odors of death, but not the chemical ones.
Or why, every time I visited a morgue, I expected eight tables lined before me instead of one. Sixteen feet tenting sterile white shrouds.
Another memory. Another nightmare superimposed over my reality. The exterminated Mahoney Clan.
And I, the lone survivor.
“Let’s not forget, Phillips, that my area of expertise is profiling violent offenders.” Dr. Thomas Bond, and Dr. George Phillips conversed in the way of men in their profession, eschewing their titles in private for the sake of brevity, or so I assumed.
“Pish.” Dr. Phillip’s shadow gestured with his scalpel. “Offender profiling is an infant science not yet old enough to be weaned from its mother. And letus not forgetthat your profile did exactly nothing to aid in the Ripper’s apprehension. Why the inspectors summoned you to my hospital—tomymorgue—is beyond my scope of comprehension.”
Bond clasped his hands behind his back. “As is the subtle and complex science of the brain,” he muttered.
“Why you—!”
To advertise my presence, I disturbed a tray of metal instruments adjacent to an empty examination table, exclaiming my hasty apologies immediately afterward.
I tried not to smile too broadly as both men popped a head around opposite sides of the white screen. Two of London’s preeminent surgeons looking as sheepish as caught-out, quarreling schoolboys.
“What ho, Miss Mahoney?” Dr. Phillips rested a stabilizing finger on the used scalpel in his left hand. “I heard the wordRipperwhispered over Mr. Sawyer, here, and was certain your shadow would quickly follow.”
“You know me well, sir.” I bobbed a curtsy, noting that, by all appearances, Dr. Phillips had gotten just about as much sleep as I had. Beneath his surgeon’s apron, his vest and shirtsleeves were rumpled, and his cravat askew. The pomade in his hair must have been from last night as it hadn’t withstood his hat this morning, the strands jutting in eccentric angles.
Strange, as he was generally such a tidy man, in both action and appearance.
Dr. Thomas Bond, on the other hand, was the picture of a British surgeon. Dapper, crisp and handsome in the way one’s father was, clad in a dark, woolen suit, starched collar, and a crimson cravat. With Dr. Phillip’s impressive muttonchops and Dr. Bond’s dashing mustache, they almost had a full beard between them.
“Dr. Bond.” I nodded. “It’s been too long.”
“Miss Mahoney.” He curtly kissed the air above my glove. Some would consider the gesture the height of propriety. Others would consider it an insult. It was impossible to tell how Dr. Bond meant the gesture.
He was another man, aside from Croft, whom I found difficult to properly read.
“How long has it been?” he asked in a voice as cool and smooth as the steel table upon which the corpse of Frank Sawyer was splayed before us.
“Since the Kelly inquest, I believe.” Before he could offer a demurral, I reclaimed my hand and maneuvered around the screen. I positioned myself lengthwise along the table where Dr. Phillips was posted at the head, and Dr. Bond at the foot.
